Beef Bagel

‘Jesus Christ!’ comes the shout from the back of the head in front of me. I don’t recognise this back of the head. The unfamiliar black grey mop is smoothed back into position by ruddy red fingers with a sovereign ring top. Composure regained, he’s back to his programme notes from Damien Comolli but this time, with half an eye on the players warming up.

Hans Seger’s loose up and under landed just seats away from the pair of us. It’s worth paying attention to the 20 odd balls flying about the grass not metres from where we rest. Radek Cerny comes over to collect the ball with little apology on his face. Sure, it wasn’t his kick but as a keeper shouldn’t he be fearlessly diving to catch the ball with total disregard for any moment beyond that of the first crucial touch? It should be instinct. He should have leapt into the stands simply unable to help himself, horror on his face as he flew through the air to the mercy of the moulded plastic seats, just aching to find that space between his ribs. Instead, like a big Czech girl he asks for his ball back as if it’s gone over his neighbours fence. Some kid does his bidding and he goes back to play with his friends once more.

There’s a good twenty five minutes till kick off and I’m sitting nice and relaxed, waiting for a pleasant afternoon’s game that I’m convinced we’re going to take 3-1. The weather’s fine. No swirling rain storms to cope with today and with winter solstice far behind us, the sun is up, the skies are blue and the chill in the air has dulled to a nip.

I’m the first of our crew to arrive but I’m not alone. Accompanied by a copy of the Independent on Sunday with my arm resting on the back of the seat next door, I lay the broad sheets of the paper out across my cross legged lap. It’s rather like being in a royal park of a Sunday afternoon, sitting in some pavilion with time on my hands; a leisurely hour to just exist, to browse upon the news and sit and watch the world go by. It’s easy to forget that the kids on the grass are doing more than just dreaming of being Premiership heroes but then again, it is Newcastle who are warming up at my end.

The anaemic Peter Ramage and some other Toon who play one touch balls back and forth over twenty five feet and I feel like I’m watching tennis as my head cocks left to right following each well struck pass. It’s not the easiest of skills in the world. I’d probably skew the pass five times out of ten but they look solid enough and ready to do their job. Meanwhile, on the other side of the half way line, the Tottenham boys play small games of six or seven a-side as they practice their close quarters game. Berbatov’s touch is an even sweeter dream given time to play the ball. He plucks a pass from the air and rolls it from his thigh down to his toes as he lays it off to Big Bad Tom for a perfect little chip over the top, where the trusty Steed awaits. We are a beautiful oiled machine.

Warm up over, the players jog out and the fans file in with next door neighbour, Omar, amongst them. We sit and chat of all things Spurs; windows, rumours, Young, Jung. Actually there was no Jung but it did get a little Freudian when we talked about MJ as a father figure for the junior players. We didn’t stop to think if Little Aaron wanted to kill the Dutchman and marry Chris Hughton.

It’s rare the both of us are well in time for kick off and rarer still that we’ve both washed. I’m clean as a whistle despite a latish night of Match the Day, Family Guy, a lot of gin, slightly more tonic, a little marijuana and the company of good men such as myself. What’s more and to my delight, I haven’t caught a whiff of Omar’s breath. I’m not sure whether he’s brushed or not and I’m a little scared of getting close enough to find out but on a day like today, I’ll give my friend the benefit of the doubt.

We mull over the opposition team sheet and spot the weaknesses straight away. No Scott Parker and an out of position Solano, exposed at right full back but then with no genuine left winger to contend with, how much a problem will that be? The crowd and us with it stand up at the first glimpse of a Lilywhite shirt and we cheer each and every one as our line up is announced. Ledley’s still not back from his injured foot and both Omar and I grimace at his omission but Little Aaron’s back in the side and with Tainio’s promise to be that terrier, we’ve a confidence in the midfield that was beginning to wane.

From the first minute, we’re all over them like their cheap away strip; a championship looking mid blue and burgundy or would you call it claret? They turn and spin and look from man to man as they see blurs of players flash white before their eyes. On the ball, off the ball, they simply can’t tell. Wave after wave of Spurs attack hits them as we cut through their stunned lines time and time again. We pepper their goal in a hail of bullets as shoot after shot rains down upon the visiting team and they’d be dead, with nowhere to run, they’d be spanked on their bottoms all the way back to their mothers’ apron strings if it wasn’t for one man. They’d be snivelling into their bread and dripping and coal crumble puddings if it wasn’t for Ireland’s No.1, Shay Given.

His first save is a one on one. Malbranque, starting as he means to continue puts Defoe through, slightly wide to the left but inside the box. Both Omar and I hold our breath as right behind the action, we watch the Little Yiddo make his move. Given stays tall and it’s Defoe, who has to make his move. With the angle getting tighter and the target smaller, he goes low and for the far corner. We’re on our feet but the keeper makes the save. My neighbour and I share a brief glance and look to the heavens as we sit back down with reluctance as if to cold toilets in the morning. We talked about this problem before. Great striker Jermain, but give him time to think and he’s not the best in the world. One on one you’d rather have any other player on the park, centre halves aside and probably Mido too.

Those thoughts of ‘That could have been our one big chance’ are soon silenced and how as we launch five more attacks in nearly as many minutes. Malbranque, again the creator, tries the ball wide instead to find the run of Pascal Chimbonda, as strong a force in attack as in defence. A moment on the ball is all the Frenchman needs to pin point a sweeping cross as good as any winger. The Geordie defence, still reeling from the pace of it all, is simply unequipped to pick up the runners and especially Jermain Defoe, who’s decided that today is going to be his. He meets the ball for a side foot volley at the near post and we all let out an ‘ooooohhhh’ like a body blow as the ball sails over the target.

But again no matter. Tainio finds Berbatov down the right channel, who drives the ball just too close to the keeper for Given to palm it away. It’s unlike the Bulgarian to place the ball so carelessly but I’ll forgive anyone their first touch of the game, particularly when there’s barely a minute to rue it.

Little Aaron makes a surge down the right and already the crowd are on their feet as we feel as pumped as the players do. We can smell blood. We all can. Lennon hits it low and hard, hoping for just the pinball that ensues. Off Taylor, goalbound and only cleared by Ramage, the ball loops high and wide to the outside corner of the area, where Steed is steaming in. Before my eyes can catch up with the play and before the defenders know what’s happened, the Belgian, only second in fame to Hercule Poirot, simply hammers the ball with a piece of technique from a drawer so high you’d need a step ladder to reach it and the shot streaks perfectly toward the target. On any other day, that’s in; a true net buster, goal of the month contender but in a piece of pure daylight robbery, the fired up Given dives in for the save. With so much action on the ball, I’m beginning to get the feeling that he could stop all day.

‘Oh, that would’ve been sweet,’ turns Omar to me with a look on his face like he’s sucked a bag of lemons, ‘that was in,’ but Malbranque’s taken no such time to ponder as he charges down the wing and fires in another cross just yards out from the goal, where again, Jermain Defoe is running to meet the ball with his head of all things. The 5′7″ player makes contact with the bladder, not as hard as you like but a sure fire effort and again that God damn Given makes the save down and to his right.

‘I’d forgotten we could play like this,’ I say, enraptured by the beauty of the flow of our game. We look sharp, we look dangerous, we look like a team you just can’t keep down. That pesky keeper has got some other ideas but fortunately, so has Defoe and the man on the mission Malbranque.

Steed’s on the ball again. He beats his man for pace on the left wing, right in front of my nose. We stand to cheer him on like a racehorse to the finish, shaking our fists as he streaks on by. Still on our feet and thankfully, still on his, he slides the ball in low and hard past the overstretched Newcastle defence unable to stop the run of the all too fast danger man Defoe, who without a second to think, lunges for the ball and this time Given can only watch as the it rolls gently in.

As if teased and taunted by the fifteen minutes of play, our celebrations are a full on riot of pure testosterone. I scream and scream a release I haven’t felt at the Lane for quite a few weeks; a goal that counts, points to be won, a game that really matters. I throw myself at the lads in front and my shin to the back of their chairs. I knew the pain would be coming. I don’t care. It makes me angrier, thirstier; my pleasure and pain, my reality all the more visceral.

Defoe still mugged, held, prized by his team mates is paraded down our line and we sing for him his song it’s been our pleasure to do for nearly five years now because truly, ‘Jermain Defoe is a Yiddo.’

We retake our seats, feathers ruffled, hackles up, our gang has proved its worth but our celebrations are short lived when the visitor’s first attack of the game comes up with a goal. We see a free kick swung in, heads climbing high, a loose ball, a shot and pure disbelief as the away fans jump and shout and make that hideous sound of just one corner in raptures. No noise will ever bring me so close to murder.

We shake our heads. How can we have let this happen when we had such control of the game? As we pick up the ball and the pieces, the Geordie fans begin their taunts.

‘You’re not singing any more,’ no shit. Funny that, seeing as it was you that scored.

‘Yeah, well you wont be singing at the end of the game,’ screams Horseface in reply. She’s right. I know she’s right but for now there’s only one thing for us all to sing as Tainio places the ball on the spot,

‘Come on you Spurs,’ sing the crowd as one, ‘come on you Spurs.’ We know it’s just a blip, a lucky goal but somehow our team isn’t quite so sure and perhaps nor are the visitors.

There’s a little hesitance in our play. We don’t push up just as we were before. Our strikers continue to pour on the pressure, to chase the ball down, to harry the defenders but there’s a gap opened up between our front and the midfield and in the time it takes for them to believe once more, Newcastle have grown just enough.

‘Shall we sing a song for you?’ ask the away fans still up from their goal.

‘Shall we win a cup for you?’ comes our reply, hitting them right where it hurts, in the emptiest trophy cabinet around.

Their silence is nearly two-fold as Little Aaron is put through by a ball over the top. Shay Given on form, sees the danger early, charges out to make the clearance but this time his actions are ill advised. Few judge the speed of our pacey gnome with any real accuracy and the ball is only just squeezed out between their two bodies as far as Steed Malbranque, 35 yards out with Given stranded in no man’s land, caught in the wire. Our midfielder takes a touch, a look, a moment of composure and lifts the ball agonisingly high towards the net as all; us, them, Given and Steed can only hold our breath and pray. We exhale, the Geordies breathe again, Given counts his lucky stars and Steed crouches down with his head in his hands. The ball rolls wide. He knows it was a gift but with our chances still flowing we don’t think twice. Never mind. They’ll be more and indeed there are but now for both sides.

A Martins shot is tipped away by Robbo, a Lennon strike is saved, as is one for Berbatov and another from Defoe, after a piece of individual brilliance as he danced his way round three players to create an opening for a loop just wide of the base of the far post. The Geordies are getting ruff and we’re not best pleased as referee Steve Bennett allows them to do so. Hack after hack and hand ball follows hand ball as the home crowd become more and more outraged. Lennon and Defoe are chopped time and time again until finally Ramage pushes it too far and Bennett sees the light.

Huddlestone floats the free kick in and the unlikely, unspotted target man for so many of our set pieces, Pascal Chimbonda gets his head to the ball from 10 yards out. What a boon it is to have a full back like him but today we just hadn’t counted on that keeper, as once more he plucks the ball from the air. There’s a minor handbag or two, perhaps a purse or napsack as our defender and Given get in each other’s way. Sensing advantage, the keeper goes down appealing to the ref for a card. He had our reluctant respect until then but now our secret hatreds are more than justified.

‘Given, you’re a cunt, Given, Given, you’re a cunt is all that can be heard for the last five minutes of the half with full reprise as the whistle is blown. Butt and Chimbonda have words and thankfully no one spots as the ex-United player receives a tidy little slap from the Frenchman, like a challenge for a duel. Butt goes red head, red face nuts. A scuffle, a whistle and I’m sure Chimbonda’s off but it’s a card for Nicky Butt and only one for our full back as they disappear into the West Stand.

I stand up and stretch my arms, unlock my focus from the field. There’s only one head I look for as I turn back to the field, the head that’s above the rest, as if in a tier all of its own. A catch of the eyes and a nod of the head is all that it takes for this time honoured ritual to begin and like that, it’s half time bagels with my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through.

Today’s menu is cheese; cheap but tasty. It seems like a while since we’ve had time to catch up and before I know it the fifteen minutes is up. It’s all been league tables, future fixtures and like all bad footballers, not a single thought for the game in hand. There’s no doubt in our minds that we’ll be taking the points.

The game kicks off once more and the battle continues as before with only slightly less abuse for the Newcastle keeper.

‘Get back to your caravan,’ croaks a voice behind me. I knew there’d been something missing. Where were the sweetest screeches at WHL? It seems our Junior Harpy’s enjoying her new coming of age. I hear murmurs to the rear of nights on the booze, getting home at four and the best thing I could possibly hear,

‘I smoked a pack a of 20 last night.’

So cigarettes, eh? I assume she’s not talking condoms. That’ll dull those vocal chords. That’ll crust them up. That’ll take a little wind out of those fresh pink lungs but best of all, that’ll save my little ears. Thank God for youth, stupidity and tobacco. So, she’s found booze and fags? I pity the poor guy with whom she discovers sex.

Malbranque’s switched wings and he’s playing like a man fighting for his place or is this just the real Steed we’re beginning to see. He’s tackling back to my applause and that of others. His whole left side is streaked from the dirt of slide after slide as he turns defence to attack from a perfect timed challenge. He races down the right, his second home, cutting, chasing, weaving, tacking on man after man, creating the space. Between him and Defoe they could lift any team and indeed he does once more.

He threads one through to Chimbonda’s run, overlapping to the line but the lofted cross never comes. Our full back cuts it low all the way to the far post, where Teemu Tainio takes a dig at goal. But the shot is foiled yet again by the Geordie back line; their fly in our ointment but only once pal, only once. The rebound falls to Berbatov and with one those volleys that goes into the ground in such a way as you never really know if they meant it or not, the ball finds the top corner and we celebrate once more. The lead is ours and the cheering all Spurs.

I jump up with the crew and we bounce around as one big unit. I reach out far and tap the head of the face to the left of Little and Big Man. We know each other by sight but we’re just too far to ever even talk. What better time to make first contact with this Turkish George Clooney? Many apparently, as our communication falls a little confused and short, while we grapple with each other’s hands trying to find a mutually acceptable form of greeting. I end up holding his fist. I’m not quite sure this belongs to any of the world’s cultures. Neither is he and somehow this slightly eggy moment takes the joy from our jumps. Never mind, eh? Better luck next time.

With our lead reasserted we start to press further. That little lost confidence is once more restored but still we can’t put that daylight between us and the barcodes. A 22 yard Defoe special is blocked by that bastard Given. Huddlestone tries it from three yards further with a little helping hand from Taylor but I watch the shot from directly behind as it just clears the corner of the bar. He tries again and again a deflection.

Midfield pushed up and not unjustly so, turned over possession for Newcastle means the break is on and our defenders with a job to do. It’s Dyer to Martins and back and forth again until the hot shot striker lets one fly just past the retreating Dawson at 20 yards out. With Robbo on the near post and Safety First in his way you’d think the strike was covered but before I have a chance to consider even considering this, the ball is in, the net busted along with all our hearts.

‘You’ve got to applaud a goal like that,’ croaks the Jnr Harpy without a clap. There’s no way I’m applauding the opposition’s equaliser but I’m definitely begrudgingly respecting it. It’s a really impressive goal and certainly a lot more impressive than what happens next.

Back to the task in hand and ready to take what’s ours, the Spurs attack the Geordie end but all too cheap possession’s lost and as I shake my head at the thought of the incoming Newcastle danger, Obefemi Martins has rolled the ball across to grubby Nicky Butt in the heart of our penalty area and with their fourth shot, the visitors score their third goal; two in as many minutes. Simply unbelievable.

‘No, no, no,’ is all I can hear from my left. ‘What are you doing man?’ shouts Omar and I can’t even catch his eye. I don’t want to look at anyone. I don’t want to know it’s true. The Newcastle fans erupt in delight and sing a northern dirge as Butt runs over, pointing to the back of his shirt. After two seasons, you’d hope they’d know his name, that is assuming they can read.

Our stunned crowd sits in disbelief and for once I feel like I’m the only fan, who doesn’t think it’s over. With fifteen still on the clock, there’s plenty of time to grab three points, I’m not even worried about the one. With all our shots, we’ve got to get another but the Newcastle players go back to the plan they came here with and the more they battle to spoil the play, somehow the more we lose the will to shoot.

We’ve had nearly two thirds of the possession all game but now when our need is greatest, we just can’t come up with the goods. It’s as if all the imagination is gone and the confidence in ability with it.

‘Come on you Spurs,’ half echoes around the Lane, like an apparition of an old belief as it darts across the stands. It’s hollow emptiness a ghost of seasons gone by. We don’t do this any more. We don’t lose like this at home, do we?

MJ’s thinking we don’t and plays his hand all at once. Keane comes on for Malbranque, Zokora for Tainio, Ghaly for Davenport and big Michael Dawson is pushed up front. I’m not convinced Steed should’ve gone but I love the daring of our boss’ plan. A back three of Chimbonda, Ghaly and Lee is all that stands between the Toon and a rout. Ghaly’s looking like a fish out of water but to my surprise he’s tackling like a demon. Well actually, like a central midfielder, all slides and no muscle but it’ll do for now. At the other end Dawson bobs about as ball after ball is lofted high into the heart of the Geordie defence.

The minutes tick down and after Defoe’s last effort can only find the upright, my friends are start leaving. We shake our bitter goodbyes but I’m not ready to go. Why have they given up? We’re still playing well. We can get one back. I still believe but by the time the whistle goes, I’m not only wrong, I’m also alone.

The blasts of a song from the stadium speakers do their best to drown out the visiting crowd, cheering in their spawny three points. How can we have played so well, conceded so many, walked away with nothing but anger and a bruise on my shin?

My way back to The Bakery is mostly a blur. I don’t call Hugh. He doesn’t call me. We’d thought to go for a pint but even a Bailey’s would be tasting like bitter if we sifted through the ashes of the last two hours. I can’t face it and I know nor can he.

I catch wrong train after wrong train, my thoughts elsewhere as I find my way home through some iterative method. I’m not sure how I’m going to write the bagel? There’s more than this game lost today. There’s a belief in our team; a shaking of our thoughts of where we belong. We’re one step closer to thinking of last season as just a flash in the pan, of being that lucky club of the year. Do we really have it? Is it mid table once more? As each game goes by, it seems more and more so but when do we finally admit? All this talk of transfers and players but even Arjen Robben in our left wing void wouldn’t have made the difference today.

I steady my thoughts with the missing Ledley King and the idea that maybe I’m just a little depressed from the battering of skunk of the night before. Later at home, my mind cushioned with tea and the BDO darts, I’m feeling a little more like it. We’ve got three more cups to contend with this season. The only difference is a missing Michael Carrick and lack lustre Edgar Davids. We can be that team. We just have to believe and with Berbatov, Chimbonda and perhaps just one more, we can be even better. If only we just got those three points today.

Given you’re a cunt, Given, Given you’re a cunt.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 17th, 2007 at 3:57 am and is filed under Match Reports. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.